


Stay With Me, My Child

by Natileroxs



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alistair swears a tinny bit, Gen, I Tried, I don't know where I was going with this, It got really sad, have not researched so dont expect too much of me, idk about time periods and stuff, kirkland brothers being emotional af, longest chapter yet, more sadness, sorry - Freeform, sorry for all my readers of other stories, spain is a little bit of a piece of shit in this but really i do love him, spain is only there for about a min, why
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-03-14 00:29:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13582176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Natileroxs/pseuds/Natileroxs
Summary: When Arthur disappeared, they finally noticed how much he meant to them.1000 years later, they knew their baby brother was dead because he had just been human.





	1. Part 1 - Brother's Side

**Author's Note:**

> Alistair - Scotland  
> Dylan - Wales  
> Seamus - Irealand  
> Their personalities are a combination of fanon and what little we know of their canon personalities.  
> I haven't researched this at all. If stuff is wrong then sorry.
> 
> I'd like to thank Surreal Supernaturalist for beta-reading this for me.

“Ah!”

A long sigh escaped Alistair’s mouth. Dylan turned around and helped the youngest of their little party up.

Seamus rolled his eyes. “Arthur, you actually need to lift your legs to step over tree roots.”

The blond was blushing brightly. “I-I know that, stupid!”

Alistair just scowled and continued on his journey, not caring if the others followed. It’s not like they didn’t know the way home.

“Big brother Alistair,” They wouldn’t leave him alone, would they? Dylan stood there, holding Arthur’s hand firmly.

“Look where you’re going,” Alistair contemplated just rushing off now; those two could deal with the young lad.

But, when he made to hurry off again, the three of them followed, Arthur’s hand tightly grasped in Dylan’s, despite the fact that Arthur’s face was beet red.

Alistair rolled his eyes. “Come on, it’s nearly dark,”

* * *

 

Arthur was just human. The three knew that much. There was no new country around to be personified. None near where they’d found him anyway.

They’d first met the young boy in a thick forest near the top of Scotland. Wales, or Dylan, had asked him questions, but the boy didn’t seem to understand very well.

What the boy had managed to communicate to them was disjointed and vague. They did figure out that his first name was Arthur.

Although against it at first, Scotland had relented and let the boy stay with them. It had been uncomfortable at first, Arthur being both very shy but also feeling strongly about something. His enthusiasm for things such as magic had Alistair watching him closely.

Many theories swam in the brothers head of Arthur’s origins. Perhaps an unwanted child of a witch or whore.

The idea that he could be a nation was quickly shot down when proposed. Although the younger boy could embody the lower half of the land, it was unlikely.

Britannia had died when Rome had taken the land. There had been no replacement, nor a need for one. No one lived there. To their knowledge, it was simply a ruin of what would have been Roman countryside.

The three brothers looked after the boy because he had no place to go. And they continued because even though they wouldn’t admit it, they had grown to care for him.

* * *

 

“Arthur, come down stairs!” Alistair yelled, irritated that this was the third time he’d had to call.

A crash and cry made the Scot scowl. He made his way up the stairs and sure enough, there was Arthur tangled up in his sheets and the knitted quilt/blanket thingy that Dylan had given him for his last ‘birthday’. Which was just an anniversary of the day they’d found him.

After giving the boy a quick check over to make sure he was okay – but not because he cared, it was just that Dylan would throw a fit... maybe – Alistair lifted the boy up and the sheets fell to the ground.

Arthur blushed profusely and sent Alistair a strong glare. This was met with a raised eyebrow, making the blond more embarrassed.

“Shut up!” Arthur hissed despite the fact he hadn’t said anything and Alistair almost chuckled but didn’t. Instead, he carried Arthur down the stairs, only laughing when Arthur started kicking him.

Alistair would never admit how much it hurt. Because that boy was strong as hell.

Once down the stairs and placed in a seat at the table, Arthur reasonably quietened. It wasn’t until near the end of tea did he pipe up again.

“Brother Alistair picked me up and dragged me down the stairs!” It was phrased more like a statement than a complaint, which was odd.

Taking a sip of whiskey, Alistair gave the boy a snide smirk. “It’s because you’re a big baby who gets caught up in his own sheets,”

“Hey!”

“Why were you in bed anyway?” Alistair asked, a frown making its way across his face.

“I-“ Arthur didn’t look ready to answer, simply biting his lip.

No.

On closer inspection, it looked as if Arthur was holding something in.

“Arthur?” Dylan’s voice was laced with the same confusion and slight concern Alistair felt.

Arthur suddenly covered his mouth and lurched forward. Dylan stood up quickly, chair scraping loudly against the wooden floor as he pushed away from the table.

Alistair felt himself do the same thing. His eyes darted to Seamus, who was now frozen and watching the scene carefully.

The sound was almost inhuman and that’s what petrified him the most. Bent over was his little baby brother, coughing harshly into his own hands in a way that shouldn’t be possible for a child as young as him.

Seamus was now out of his seat and was visibly twitching. Dylan rushed up to the boy and rubbed his back as he continued coughing.

Alistair’s eyes were drawn back to Arthur’s hands at every cough. His feet moving on their own, he noticed the boy swaying in his chair. Dylan had noticed too, letting the young one lean on him slightly.

His coughing fit died down eventually and so did his energy. Alistair, now beside said boy, caught him as he fainted and fell sideways. Maneuvering himself around the boy, he finally got his arms under the young one's legs and pulled Arthur to his chest.

Gently rising off the ground, Alistair began the hefty track up the stairs, taking the steps slowly so as to not move Arthur around too much.

He gestured for Dylan to follow him, moving aside for the Welshman to go ahead.

When he got to Arthur’s room, the bed had been made again and Dylan stood next to it with a corner of the covers flipped back. Alistair’s hands slipped under the covers and Arthur slid free.

The boy visibly curled up into himself. Alistair brushed Arthur’s hair back slightly before kissing his forehead and then straightening himself. Dylan gave him an incredulous look that Alistair really didn’t need, so the elder boy strode out of the room.

* * *

 

Alistair ran his hands through his hair, completely exhausted.

“Well, what are we going to do?” Seamus asked. Dylan banged his head against the table.

“Do we really need to talk about this now?!” The Welshman groaned into the wood. Alistair scowled.

“When else will we?” Seamus spat and crossed his arms.

“Some other time! Not while he’s sick in bed,” Dylan quickly retorted.

“He’s always sick!” The Irishman growled and strode over to the table, putting his hands down on either side of where Dylan’s chin sat. “He’s human! He won’t live forever, he isn’t as indestructible as we are! We can’t keep putting this off!”

“I know that!” Dylan kicked his chair back as he rose from his seat.

“You two need to stop arguing,” Alistair interjected, giving the two stone cold glares. “We just need to look after him as long as we can.”

“He’s going to die, Alistair! And you propose we just, I don’t know... CARE for him until then? Until he DIES! He is a human child! He deserves to be with a human family.”

Alistair and Seamus stared at each other daring the other to speak.

“I-I don’t want to see him die,” Dylan’s voice came from beside them. Tears were already coming down his face. “W-why couldn’t he just be like us?”

Seamus drew an arm across his own eyes. “Fate says no, brother.”

“’Course fate doesn’t allow it. ‘Cause fate’s an ass,” Alistair growled but gently embraced his brothers who were both already crying.

Little did they know that their youngest brother had been watching from the doorway.

* * *

 

All three brothers had slept fitfully. Alistair had finally given up by the time the sun was starting to peek out from the horizon and went to check on Arthur.

But...

Empty. The room was empty of his brother. Clothes were strewn about and the sheets lay in a heap on the floor. The window sat wide open, the cold morning breeze fluttering in.

Alistair stepped forward slowly, watching for any movement. There was none.

“T-This can’t be happening...” Alistair muttered, dumbstruck.

He heard a crash behind him. Turning around, he saw Dylan standing there, the remains of what should have been Arthur’s breakfast spread across the floor mixed in with pieces of glass. The Welshman was frozen to the spot, hands held out in front of him.

“A-Alistair. Where is Arthur? The brunet whispered, shaking. The eldest brother simply turned around to stare back at the room in front of him.

His feet moved on their own as he was suddenly consumed with desperation and deep-rooted fear. He grabbed objects and tossed them aside, looking for a sign. He got more and more anxious and moved quicker and quicker, smashing ornaments and breaking books and their spines.

The two things that remained untouched were the wooden statue that Alistair himself had carved – a small, flying rabbit which was painted lime green – and the blanket Dylan had knitted.

Everything else was left in ruins.

“Alistair! Stop it!” Dylan yelled. That finally woke Seamus, who, tiredly, rubbed his eyes in the doorway before stopping in his tracks.

“What...?” In his half-asleep state, he didn’t quite understand what was going on. Alistair chose to ignore the two in favour of rushing to the window, grabbing the window sill and casting his eyes out to the expanse of land.

The clearing outside their house was empty. If the boy had run, he would be deep in the forest by then. If he was kidnapped – which was far more likely, the boy could barely go down stairs let alone scaling a wall or jumping from the second story – well, if he was kidnapped then they’d be gone further still, especially on horseback.

“What happened?” Seamus finally asked, seemingly still confused.

“He’s gone, perhaps kidnapped or he has run away,” Alistair’s voice was oddly devoid of emotion as he said this.

“W-we should search for him!” Dylan had gotten a hold of himself, though you could still hear the stutter in his voice.

“Look for w-“Seamus froze. Alistair hopped onto the window sill before dropping out the window and onto the ground below.

“Alistair!” Dylan cried and rushed out the door and down the stairs. Seamus went to the window, still in slight shock.

Alistair though, he didn’t stop. He ran straight into the woods. Despite the mud staining his nice boots, he didn’t stop. Despite the branches and thorns scratching his face, he didn’t stop.

Despite the fact that there was no hope of ever finding Arthur again, he just couldn’t stop.

Arthur was his life, his world. The boy was the only thing keeping him human. If he lost that, there was no telling what would happen.

Alistair finally cleared the woods and stood in a small village, people milling about like usual. He almost growled but refrained, reminding himself that there was no reason to. They were unaware of his current peril.

Perhaps someone had seen Arthur last night or early that morning. He looked around, eyes darting everywhere to try and spot someone – anyone – suspicious.  

He ended up wandering into the village pub, a small one which he usually got his liquor from. At stools, drunken men sat, raising glasses and cheering loudly.

He actually verbally cursed at this and that catches the attention of a figure sitting in the back of the pub, huddling closely into themselves and hugging their drink to their chest, hands clamped around the handle so tight it should have shattered.

The figure motioned for him to come forward and he grudgingly complied.

“’You looking for someone?” The voice was a dead giveaway. Despite all nations ‘sort of’ agreeing that any action their country took was not of the personifications fault, Spain and him didn’t have the best relationship.

But it wasn’t the time for childish rivalries.

“Yes,” Alistair was very curt and Antonio immediately stiffened.

“Who?”

Alistair swiftly took the other in, the brunet looking absolutely serious.

“Young Arthur has gone missing, so, unfortunately, I have no choice but to go looking for him,” He tried to keep the desperation out of his voice, putting up a front of boredom and annoyance to mask his fear and real worry he had for the boy.

“Arthur? The human boy?” Antonio looked skeptical and Alistair turned around, stepping forward. It had been a waste of time to even go near Antonio. He quickly strode towards the door.

Unfortunately, he still got to hear Antonio say, “Why are you even looking for him? He’s human, he will die eventually. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was already dead.”

Alistair’s fist hit the table with a loud thud. The wood threatened to break but didn’t, much to his displeasure. He would have much rathered the structure fall to pieces in front of him.

“Where would he have gone?” Seamus muttered, biting his lip and trying to keep himself calm.

“He couldn’t have run away. He was sick and the window is too high,” Dylan whispered, looking up the stairs, tears prickling at his eyes.

“You’re not suggesting-”

“I am,” Dylan stood up from his chair. Alistair glared but the brunet ignored him, back stiff, expression cold despite the tears that splattered on the ground.

Alistair shot a look at Seamus before getting up and storming up the stairs. The two followed him, although Dylan was much more reluctant. He brushed stray tears from his cheeks quickly.

The eldest brother had stopped in front of Arthur’s room, grasping the handle and pulling the door shut.

“None of us are to enter this room ever again,” Alistair kept his voice even, face ruining his strong appearance as his eyes watered slightly.

“What?” Seamus hissed. “Just like that? We’re GIVING up?!” Dylan turned away.

“There is no point anymore, is there?” His voice wobbled.

“Of course there is! We need to find him! We need to LOOK!”

“We have,” Alistair’s voice cut through, words like shards of ice. “We’ve looked everywhere.” He quickly caught a stray tear and swept it off his face.

“B-but-”

“We will never find him, Seamus. He’s never coming back.”

* * *

 

The putrid smell of liquor came from outside Arthur’s  **Shut Up** room. Every night, without fail, Dylan would find his eldest brother curled up against the locked door, drunk out of his mind and sleeping lightly, an open bottle of whiskey clutched tightly in his hand.

But that night, there was no bottle.

It couldn’t have been long after Alistair returned home that Dylan had found him with his knees to his chest and head tucked in, sobbing.

Dylan was frozen in place. He’d never seen the Scot do that. The most emotion Alistair would show was a single tear or to break something.

He didn’t even seem mad. Just upset. Despite not being able to see Alistair’s face, Dylan knew the redhead's face was scrunched up.

His footsteps were quiet as he gently placed his arms around the other’s broad frame.

Alistair slowly lifted his head, tears still streaming down his face. He was silent as Dylan looked him over. His lips trembled, but he was silent.

It was only when Dylan started rubbing his back that he clutched the brunet’s clothes and cried into his shoulder.

It took all of Dylan’s willpower to not collapse into tears right then and there. But he had to be strong.

Alistair had been strong for too long.

Seamus found them early in the morning, sleeping in each other’s grasp, and decided to leave them be.

* * *

Alistair brushed the hair out of his face and groaned quietly. His boss gave him so much paperwork, it was ridiculous.

“Scotland, we’re going out for a drink,” The Welshman’s voice fluttered through the door. Alistair smirked.

“Not without me you aren’t,” He shouted back, gathering the parchment and pushing it to one side.

He kicked the door open before sighing loudly at the slight sound of movement.

The two were trying to play him. He knew that. Looking down the hall, he could see the vague outline of shadows on the ground and rolled his eyes.

“Wow, you got me. Now hurry up, are we going or not?” He waved his hand and the two appeared.

“Hey, that’s rude. We didn’t even say you could go,” Seamus snarled at him. Dylan simply laughed.

“Well, let’s get going then,” He grinned at the other two before bolting down the stairs. Seamus followed behind quickly.

Alistair though... He stopped by the one door where, many centuries ago, he’d cried his eyes out for the first time.

It had been so long since then. Almost one thousand years tended to make you feel old. That’s what Alistair had discovered.

None of the three had talked about Arthur’s disappearance since it had happened. There was an unspoken agreement not to.

Sure, they all comforted each other during long episodes. If one of them was crying at the door, then it was one of their duties to help. Dylan comforted Alistair, Alistair comforted Seamus, Seamus comforted Dylan.

Alistair actually felt pretty guilty about how many nights he’d kept Dylan up. But Seamus kept him up a fair bit too, so...

Seamus was actually woken the least. Dylan tended to keep his feelings to himself. He had cried once or twice, Seamus trying his hardest to calm him but with little to no success.

That used to be Alistair. As the eldest, he used to be the strong one. The one who kept to himself.

Not anymore... He felt conflicted about that.

“Come on!” Seamus yelled from the front door and Alistair hurried down the stairs.

* * *

 

It was late when the three arrived home. Only half drunk, Alistair didn’t even stumble as he stepped through the door, counting it as an achievement.

Dylan behind him, who had only had about half a glass, was supporting a wobbly and loud Seamus, the youngest  **Second youngest don’t you forget** could never hold his liquor.

The brunet looked almost bored, rubbing Seamus’ back as he had so many times before. Their footsteps echoed loudly on the floorboards that creaked loudly with age.

Alistair slowly made his way up the stairs, clinging to the handrail like a lifeline and simply enjoying the dull and numb feeling that alcohol gave him.

His eyes grazed over the hallway. But unlike before he left, something felt wrong.

Behind him, Seamus and Dylan had stopped. Only because he had, but they were at least looking around for the disturbance.

While Seamus still wobbled slightly, he looked like he was fairing a lot better than before. Alistair himself had sobered up a considerable amount and was looking to each room individually, trying to figure out which one felt off.

Pushing in front of him, Dylan made his way over to a particular door that had Alistair almost running toward it.

He was now standing in front of Arthur’s room  **WHY WHY WHY** . The door was ajar.

Not enough to see in, but seeing as the door wasn’t supposed to be open in the first place; alarms were going off in his head.

“Who opened it?” Alistair around to glare at Seamus who had his hands up in surrender. Looking across to Dylan heeded no results and the brunet simply shook his head, face still contorted in shock.

Alistair reached for the edge of the door, dust griming up his hand, and pulled it open fully.

Rotting wooden furniture sat haphazardly on the ground, some barely standing.

Books were still strewn about and were coated in a layer of dust which contaminated the room as a whole and flitted around the room as if it had been very recently disturbed.

On a chair that was missing a leg laid a gingerly draped coat and rich red hat with feathers sticking out of the top at different angles.

On the bed rickety bed that threatened to collapse more and more as the years went on, lay a figure who was snuggled in an old blanket which was almost in pieces.

In their arms was the small wooden bunny statue which he clutched tightly. Fading tear tracks stained his face, tears still trickling out his eyes and into his straw-like blond hair which wouldn’t sit properly and was splayed out everywhere.

The three brothers stood there in shock before tiptoed over to the bed.

The stranger was most definitely deep in sleep and not easily woken. Alistair gently turned him over so he could see him better.

His breath caught. He couldn’t speak. The only sound that came from his mouth was an inhuman sounding cry.

“Alis-“

“Is-Is it him?” Dylan interrupted, asking what both of them were wondering.

Alistair slowly nodded, not believing his own eyes. He leaned down and put his ear to the male’s chest, hearing the dull thud of a heartbeat.

Questions ran rabid through his head but all he did was collapse -carefully because the damn bed was going to fall apart - next to the figure.

Tears slowly but surely streamed down his face as he squeezed his eyes shut and his arms snaked out to hug the other person. The blond tensed before relaxing into his embrace with a smile making its way across his face.

Alistair could barely hear the other two’s footsteps as they kneeled next to the bed and rested their heads on it.

None of them cared if they would have a creak in their neck in the morning or about the dust that clung to their clothes already or the hard, brittle wood that the bed with made of.

Because their little brother was back.

Arthur was back.


	2. Part 2 - Arthur's Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England's point of view as he was raised by three human boys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go, everyone who wanted this. I hope it stands up to the first chapter. This is the conclusion.
> 
> Has been beta'd by Surreal Supernaturalist

Consciousness came to him slowly but his eyes stayed closed. In his half-awake state, he just wanted to enjoy the warmth that enveloped him, and it didn’t occur to him that he should be worried at all.

He’d come back, half drunk, balling his eyes out and dizzy. He’d slept in a bed that was falling apart in a room covered in mould and decay. He’d assumed no one was living here.

But, with a start, he realised that he was, in fact, not alone.

Someone lay parallel to him, one arm slung across his shoulders and the other snaked around his waist. He also noticed that he had been hugging the stranger back.

Now that was horrifyingly embarrassing. What was worse was that he could feel the familiar weight of people with their arms and heads on the bed.

Three strangers then. How had he not noticed them come in?

They must have entered his room late last night, seen he was an intruder or something and then...

And then what?

You’d think as a victim of a break-in, an unintentional one but still, you would throw out your intruder.

Or at least wake them up then kick them out.

But, no, apparently for some reason – which certainly escaped his mind, no matter how much he thought – these people had chosen to cuddle up with him.

From what he could tell the one across from him was male. The broad shoulders and flat chest made it quite obvious.

He wasn’t quite sure what the other two were, perhaps a wife and child?

Choosing to stop his hopeless guessing, he forced his eyes open. Slowly his vision adjusted to the light dancing across the walls and giving the room a warm glow.

He looked over the other’s face, studying the familiar bone structure and beautifully thick eyebrows tinged with red.

His breathing quickened, lips wavering.

What-what was happening?

Was this a dream? It had to be! There was no other explanation.

Alistair lay in front of him and hadn’t aged at all despite the thousand so years that had passed.

But humans, with their such short lifespan, shouldn’t be able to do that. So... it must be a dream, or hallucination or even maybe an outer body experience in which he was visited by a soul of the dead. He’d heard Feli had his grandfather visit him once. Why not that be the conclusion?

Every single one of those thoughts COULD be possible. It didn’t stop the tears from coming through.

He clung tighter to Alistair, not wishing to let go. If Alistair was a ghost, was an illusion, he would slip through his fingers, right?

But if this really was a dream, he didn’t want it to end. Even so, he squeezed his eyes shut and leant into Alistair, feeling warmth envelop him further.

They lay there like that for a short time. He simply wished to take in the other’s scent for he feared it wouldn’t be too long before he lost it forever.

Again he dared a glimpse at the redhead. And he was still there.

He hadn’t disappeared, wasn’t a ghost. He was flesh and blood. He could hear Alistair’s heartbeat, feel Alistair’s very real body in his arms. With every breath, Alistair became more and more real.

How?

Alistair couldn’t really be there as a person, unchanged and completely, utterly, alive...

Could he?

He breathed heavily, trying to calm himself down. And then...

His eyes met forest green ones. And all hell broke loose.

* * *

 

England wasn’t that old when he realised he wanted a family. Being a mere two hundred, although he wasn’t the best at counting the years, he didn’t like being by himself.

He cursed his existence. For it was such a lonely existence. Why didn’t he get a mother or father or brothers and sisters?

He wanted them. All the time he was asked, “Where’s your mother? Father? Why are you all alone?”

He didn’t know the answer. He couldn’t say anything. Because he didn’t know where his family was, he hadn’t been given one anyway.

When he met the brothers, he’d been on his way home to the small shelter he’d been hiding in. While he didn’t understand them too well, as they spoke some strange language he’d never heard, he’d managed to tell them his human name (he was currently going as Arthur and he rather liked it) and get their names. Alistair, Dylan and Seamus.

Names ingrained in his mind.

When inquired about his parents – “Mother? Father?” – He’d given them a shake of his head. They’d all glanced at each other before one picked him up and carried him to their home.

He’d lived there for two or so years when something dawned on him.

How would they react to him not ageing?

He’d been alive long enough to know that humans grew at a much faster rate than nations. While it could take a nation two hundred odd years to age up to where he was now, it took humans a mere six.

And not just that. Humans had such short lives. Forty years went quickly. His brothers, now currently in their early twenties had at the most twenty-five years to live.

England himself had no clue how old was the ‘max’ for nations. Rome seemed strong and powerful and youthful, yet died despite this.

On the other hand, he’d heard that China was still continuing on even after all this time.

“Arthur!” Alistair yelled loudly from the bottom of the stairs.

England sighed, shifting from where he’d been lying but not making any movement to go downstairs.

“Arthur! Come on!” England could hear his stomach growl. Alistair must be calling him for tea.

He moved again, pushing the blankets aside as he struggled to get out of bed. He cursed his short stature.

“Arthur! Come downstairs!” Alistair yelled again, making England trip and fall to the ground, his blankets coming down with him.

“Ow,” England cringed, struggling to get up with all the heavy blankets on top of him. He then groaned when he heard footsteps. Alistair must have heard him.

In the middle of struggling, Alistair turned up at the door, eyebrows raised.

England glared but didn’t struggle as Alistair picked him up. Only when Alistair smirked did he raise his voice.

“Shut up,” he hissed, face bright despite the whole thing not being his fault.

Alistair carried him down the stairs even though he could easily go down himself. He kicked Alistair hard in the thigh and was sure he saw the red head’s face strain with pain as he chuckled.

* * *

Tea was quiet. Dylan and Seamus stayed silent, the only noise made being the constant scratching of metal and porcelain. Alistair raised his glass to drink as England spoke.

“Big brother Alistair picked me up and dragged me downstairs!” He spat, not trying to complain but more to gain sympathy from his other siblings.

Alistair chuckled and took a sip of his drink before placing it down. “It’s because you’re a big baby who gets caught up in – “

England couldn’t hear the rest. All he could hear was the crying and the screaming of his people. His throat felt horse as if he’d been among them, pleading for his life. He struggled to keep the urge to cough down, instead, attempting to sound normal. “Hey!”

“Why were you in bed anyway?”

No, no, no.

Please!

Stop it!

Stop hurting them!

“I...” England couldn’t stop it. He shook, biting his lip, eyes scrunched up in pain, trying to keep it in.

He could vaguely hear Dylan’s voice calling his name.

No, he couldn’t hold it. He raised his hands and coughed roughly, bending over. He couldn’t stop himself as the coughs came faster and faster. His hands held the distinct feeling of liquid and the metallic taste in his mouth told him everything.

He could feel Dylan beside him, rubbing his back gently and England leaned into him, thankful.

As his coughs died down, and the visions disappeared, he felt himself become dizzy and inwardly groaned as he found himself fainting.

* * *

 

Their voices were what woke him. He pushed back his blankets, finding the action much easier now that he’d regained some sort of strength.

“He’s going to die, Alistair!”

He hadn’t noticed before but the whole thing must have started that afternoon. And that’s why he felt awful during the evening.

“I don’t want to see him die,”

He followed the voices down the stairs, making sure he was hidden as he peeked into the kitchen.

“Fate says no, brother,” They were crying? About him? England gripped the edge of the wall tighter.

“’Course fate doesn’t allow it!” Alistair growled but made his way over to the other two. “’Cause fate’s a dick,”

The three embraced, the two younger already crying loudly.

England gulped and turned away, bolting up the stairs as quickly and quietly as he could.

* * *

 

All night it bothered him. It echoed in his mind, their tear-stained faces and choked up voices.

Then he decided.

They didn’t want to see him die, but they’d become suspicious if he didn’t. They believed he would die, deep in their hearts, and they would question him if it didn’t happen.

This was a problem.

But there was a solution. One he didn’t like but it was better to break their hearts and have them still love him than know what he really was and betray him.

Life was unfair but he hoped his dearest that they learned to live a life without him and made the most of what time they had left.

With his decision made he put his plan into action.

Opening the window proved to be a slight challenge because it was so stiff from disuse, but he got it open in the end.

He looked for any clothing that would be useful and ended up making a mess. Once dressed in suitable (warm) attire, he pushed his sheets on the ground.

Maybe, just maybe, they would suspect that he’d been kidnapped. It was the one thing he hoped for. That they never thought he left because he didn’t love them.

His landing was rough, there were definitely going to be bruises on his feet. No matter. He’d feel better soon.

He ran for the forest, heading south. If he was lucky enough, he could make it to London and avoid his King as well.

Unfortunately, he tripped and his bad ankle had hooked on a root, twisting it. Now, England had to search around him for a stick big enough to support him for his long journey.

He knew his ankle would heal up pretty quickly, but he really didn’t have the time to let it rest. He needed to hurry or the brothers would find him and he wouldn’t have another chance to leave before his inhuman ageing became evident.

He’d rather leave them in ignorant but peaceful sorrow than anger, hatred and madness.

* * *

 

“Get out of here,” England spat, glaring at the elder boy who was spinning around in the grass, his tunic getting caught in the wind.

“Come on, tell me you love it!” The elder boy brushed the ends of his tunic free of dirt.

“It’s a dress!” England crossed his arms. The other boy leaned over, frowning.

“But it’s all the rage in France! You British boys have no taste,”

“Excuse me, I have perfect taste!” England looked down, almost embarrassed with his own drab attire.

Grey, grey, green.

Green just like...

Their eyes. Their beautiful green eyes that stared at him in the mirror every morning. He tried to avoid meeting his reflections gaze, but they always ended up locking together.

He didn’t even notice the tears streaming down his face until he heard the other speak softly to him.

“England? England what’s wrong?” England didn’t even have the energy to push the boy away, instead leaning into him as he cried more. “England?”

England sobbed louder and the other boy embraced him properly, running his hands through England’s hair.

“It’s okay, big brother France is here for you,”

England just cried harder.

* * *

 

“Get your ass outta here, Kirkland!” The brunet hissed, letting his ponytail swing as he crossed his arms and glared.

“Piss off, Antonio,” England growled with more venom than the other.

Antonio scowled from across the table before tossing another bag of coins on the table and standing up.

“Just be glad you won,” His boots rattled the wooden floor even more. The door slammed and England chuckled, putting his feet up on the table.

“Ha, that bloody Spaniard knows nothing about me.”

He heard footsteps and spun around.

“Boss-“

“Get out!” He shouted. He didn’t mean to snap be he couldn’t help it. The man looked at him, unsure, but walked out.

England scowled at the chair his feet sat in. He lifted his feet, drew them back and then kicked the chair over. “Ugh!” He screamed loudly, reaching with his foot to kick it away. He then did the same with a stool that sat a few meters away.

Then he kicked his own chair out from underneath him and fell to the ground with a loud thud before screaming loudly.

“Damn,” He whispered after he’d stopped screaming. “I thought this shit wasn’t supposed to bother me anymore.”

He pulled his knees to his chest and rested his head on them, feeling hot, wet tears start to spring from his eyes. He ignored them.

“It’s been so bloody long! Almost one fucking thousand years, yet...” He slammed his fist into the wooden floor, reopening nearly healed cuts. Blood stained the floor, leaving marks he’d have to scrub out later.

Yeah, later.

Because he had somewhere to go now. He needed to go home.

Half drunk with a bloodied hand and cigarette smoke polluting his breath; shoes scuffed and jacket torn, he walked off the ship and ran for the hills.

He stumbled a few times but paid them no mind as he made the long track across Britain.

His head became fuzzier and fuzzier as he went on. By the time he’d set foot inside his childhood home, his vision was blurry and he couldn’t think straight.

All he knew was that he needed to be in his room. Although the door was shut, nothing had been moved in a thousand years. But everything seemed a bit messier than how he’d left it.

He tossed his hat and jacket on a broken but standing chair and kicked his boots across the room, hitting books and breaking spines.

His fingers grasped a wooden figure and blanket and he fell heavily onto the rotting bed, pulling the blanket over himself and gripping tightly onto the wooden object as he slowly lulled to sleep, tears slipping free from his eyes.

* * *

 

He sat up quickly as the redhead stared at him and used his hands to catapult himself over the three, rolling on the ground and jumping out the window all while whipping hard at his eyes.

Feet pounding against the hard earth, England ran through the forest, mirroring the day he had many years ago. Branches scratched his face and his vision was blurred with tears.

And then he tripped.

* * *

 

Alistair was frozen to the spot, eyes on the window. Dylan had woken, though his expression was one of betrayal and sadness. Seamus seemed to still be in the throes of sleep.

He suddenly shook himself out of his state and rushed to the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of Arthur. None.

Alistair made to jump out the window yet was stopped. Dylan gripped tightly at his wrist.

“Go out the door!”

But Alistair simply shook his head and uttered one word. “No.”

His feet hit the ground and he kept running, mind going a mile a minute. He just couldn’t make sense of anything.

How? How was Arthur alive? He should be dead. He should have died years and years ago. Yet...

Alistair kicked at branches and roots, ducking and jumping and moving faster, faster.

Then he stopped, hearing soft crying echo through the trunks of trees and leaves that fell. He followed the sound, uneasy yet calm. When he found the source he was speechless. Arthur lay in a small dip in the ground, back against a tree, curled up and sobbing his eyes out. His baby brother now looked older than seventeen, eyes red and bloodshot, cheeks puffy.

Arthur’s ankle sat in a funny position that Alistair’s eyes kept being drawn to. The boy wailed loudly, though Alistair wasn’t sure if it was because he was in pain or not.

He crouched down and slowly but surely edged towards the blond until Arthur’s head finally rested in his lap and cried into Alistair’s loose fitting shirt.

Arthur’s crying slowly subsided to occasional hiccups and sniffles. Only then did he look up to Alistair’s face.

“You’re not just an illusion, right?” His voice shocked Alistair to the core. It sounded much deeper with a very particular accent that Alistair vaguely recognised.

“Ney, my child,” Alistair found himself not saying anything more, not voicing any questions of his own.

“How?” Arthur asked, voice wobbling as silent tears made their way down his face. “Tell me.”

“I am a being of which you may not comprehend.”

“Sure,” Now that was the snarky boy he’d raised, even for just a little while.

“I am the national personification of Scotland,” Alistair blurted out, waiting with bated breath for a denial or retort.

Instead, Arthur groaned loudly. “Are you fucking kidding me?!” Alistair looked at him in shock. “All this bloody time and there was no fucking use for it?” Arthur cursed, hands pulling at his blond locks.

“What?” Arthur ignored his single word question.

“All this time! All this TIME!” He shouted.

“What... what are you talking about?” Alistair asked again, a little more than confused.

Arthur finally addressed him. “If only I had known, I wouldn’t have had to worry about the lot of you questioning my slow ageing,” He sighed loudly when Alistair looked at him with fear. “I’m the same as you.”

Alistair froze. “What?”

“I’m a nation.”

“You are not!”

“Am too,” Arthur crossed his arms, sitting up before falling back into Alistair, hissing in pain.

“Which one?” No longer in denial, Alistair just wanted to get this over and done with.

“The south. England,” Alistair let out a shaky breath.

“Well... I guess I can get used to that,” His voice sounded unsure.

“Sure beats me being dead, huh?” Alistair scowled at him.

“Bastard.”

“That’s Romano’s thing, you know,” Arthur responded back. Alistair raised his eyebrows but didn’t comment, instead attempting to shift.

“How about we both go back home?”

Arthur shook his head, looking a lot more sombre. “Please, let it just be us for a short while. I’m not ready...”

Alistair smiled softly, a rarity, and ran his hand through Arthur’s hair.

“Of course, baby brother. Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I am really stupid and can't remember exactly what to make notes on, if you need an answer to something, just ask in the comments.

**Author's Note:**

> Would anyone like a spin-off of Arthur's side of the story? I'll only write it if people are interested. 
> 
> Also sorry but I have to ask if anyone can maybe check out my MEP sign up? It's been two months since I uploaded the original video and I've only had one person sign up :(  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z1QAGT9Q3WA


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